


Team Player

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Gangbang, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=118556191#t118556191">this prompt</a>.</p><p>After a fight with Sherlock, John meets up with his old army mates and blows off some steam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“And that’s what you really think, is it?” John’s voice was tense, dangerously so, and Sherlock _didn’t care_.

“I think,” he said, looking at the ceiling, “that you could have bought every pint of milk in Tesco in the time we’ve been having this conversation.” The rain was battering miserably against the windows. The sun had set some time ago but he hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on.

“Milk does actually cost money, you know.”

“Then take. My. Card.”

“Not the point, Sherlock.”

“Then what is the point?” He sat up in exasperation and swung his legs off the sofa. “Hm?”

John stood there in the dark, hands on hips, still wearing his jacket. “The point,” he said, speaking slowly in a transparent attempt to keep his temper under control, “is that it wouldn’t hurt you to be considerate from time to time. To do your fair share. Or just say thanks, that would be a bloody start.”

“Is that really what you aspire to?” Sherlock sneered. “Praise for buying milk? Oh, well done John, you’ve accomplished a basic commercial transaction! How could I ever have coped without you?“

John ran one hand over his face. “Christ, you’re such an arse sometimes.”

“No, I see your point perfectly now!” Sherlock waved his hands manically. “I’ll make you a badge - ‘Buyer of Milk’. No, a medal, I’m sure that’ll fit in perfectly with the rest of your collection.” He grinned viciously at John.

John’s mouth was an unhappy line. He looked at Sherlock as if he was about to say something, then shook his head and left, slamming the front door shut. Sherlock threw himself back on the sofa and groaned aloud. 

_Don’t try to pretend you’re sorry_ , whispered a nasty voice like an itch at the back of his brain. _You did that on purpose. You were bored and frustrated, and he was calm, and the resentment in your throat was so thick it nearly choked you. You couldn’t stand his pity or his endless, stupid suggestions and the fact that he hadn’t the slightest idea what it was like to feel yourself being cut to shreds by your own treacherous brain. Admit it –you were glad, even if only for a moment, to see him hurt and angry._

Sherlock scowled, shook his head to rid himself of the nagging voice and let one hand fall to the floor. He groped about until he felt the hard edge of John’s laptop under the sofa and heaved it up onto his stomach. 

Hmm …two imbecilic blog comments (reply with cutting remarks), a painfully earnest email from a woman on one of John’s dating websites (delete), a Facebook message from … _oh!_

Jackpot.

Bill Murray, devoted fan and ex-colleague, with ginger hair and a friendly, ugly face. He’d invited John out to drinks in London tonight with some of the ‘lads’ (really?) and John had tentatively accepted, clearly with no intention of actually going because John was _appalling_ at keeping in touch with people from different periods in his life. But now that John was looking for an excuse to stay away from the flat, what could be more appealing than an evening spent drinking to excess and swapping stories from the time of his life (pre-Sherlock) of which he was most proud? 

He glanced at the clock - eight o’clock. Plenty of time to throw together a disguise. He might even clear away the eyeballs before he left. 

...

(He didn’t.)

…

John was enjoying himself, which was good, but not as much as he did with Sherlock, which was better.

Sherlock was perched on a stool at the bar with a pint of tolerable beer wearing a plain pair of glasses and a revolting woollen hat that made his scalp itch. John’s table was directly behind him. He could see John’s face, flushed with alcohol and the warmth of the pub, in the mirrored glass behind the spirit bottles.

The conversation so far had been tedious and thoroughly predictable – lewd jokes, gossip, small talk and mawkish nostalgia. Sherlock decided that he’d make his exit the next time John got up to go to the -

 _Wait_. Something had changed. The youngest one had gone to the bar and there was a new tension among the remaining men. Bill had leant close to John and was speaking quietly to him, too quiet for Sherlock to hear. The other two were watching in silence. John’s eyes were bright as he listened intently. He looked towards the bar and shook his head.

The young man returned with another round of drinks and the atmosphere of the group returned to its earlier, less-charged state with no evidence of the exchange save for Bill whispering in John’s ear every time the young man was looking in the other direction. Eventually John nodded and Bill sat back with a smug, satisfied smile that Sherlock itched to wipe from his face.

Sherlock left the pub and found a convenient alleyway across the street to wait in, hunching his shoulders against the drizzle. There was a bite in the air that promised winter soon. He removed the glasses, tucking them safely away in a pocket in case he needed them later, but kept the hat for its meagre protection against the elements. 

John and his companions emerged, a quiet knot in the noisy crowd. Sherlock followed at a discreet distance. The youngest one peeled off towards the nearest tube station after five minutes but the other two didn’t, continuing on with John and Bill until they came to an undistinguished block of flats in a quiet side street and all went inside.

After a few minutes waiting outside, Sherlock saw the light flick on in one of the first-floor balcony windows – a balcony which could quite obviously be reached from the one next to it, which was currently dark and within jumping reach of the roof of the bike shed.

Easy.

After a quick look round to check that there were no spectators, he went round to the side of the bike shed and climbed up on one of the wheelie bins. From there he pulled himself up onto the roof of the shed (judging by the cigarette ends and empty bottles littered around, he wasn’t the first to do so). He positioned himself carefully at the edge of the roof, bent his knees, leapt, and successfully grabbed the iron railing round the edge of the balcony. He carefully climbed over and made his way through the obstacle course of flower pots and broken furniture. From the far side, it was an easy climb across to the lit balcony that was his goal. He stopped a moment to catch his breath before pressing his face up to the cold glass and peering through the narrow gap in the curtains.

The first thing that he saw was a pornographic film playing on the large, flat-screen TV. Bill and one of the others – a short, stocky man - were sitting on a brown leather sofa watching. The short man was masturbating casually, his hand shoved down his opened trousers. The other man was coming in from the kitchen with open beer bottles in his hands – it was his flat, he was fulfilling his obligations as host. And John ...

John.

John was topless, his pale skin a sharp contrast to the fake tan on the TV, he was on his knees in front of the sofa and between Bill’s wide-spread legs and he was sucking Bill’s cock. 

…

_Christ, but he’d missed this – a hot, thick cock in his mouth, driving all other thoughts out of his head. John licked and sucked eagerly, utterly focussed, as a draught raised goosebumps on his bare back and the buzz of conversation rose and fell around him._

_“Jesus, John,” said Bill breathlessly. “You’re so good at that. You’re such a fucking tart, I love it.”_

…

Sherlock couldn’t see his face but John wasn’t restrained in any way, there were no indications that he’d been drugged, he didn’t appear to be injured and there were no visible threats. 

Sherlock’s left hand fisted tightly in his coat pocket.

Bill was looking away, towards the kitchen, laughing at some joke that the host had made, but he had one hand resting casually on the back of John’s head, ruffling the fair hairs in a gesture of evident familiarity. Eventually Bill closed his eyes and swore, his vulgar mouth shaping obscenities as he came, and John sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling. Had he kissed him earlier, before Sherlock could see? Had he kissed that vulgar mouth?

The host passed John a bottle of beer. John took a long swig as the host settled himself on the sofa in between the other two and unzipped his fly, saying something to John. John shrugged, looking at the short man, and the two of them argued for a minute before reaching some sort of conclusion.

John nodded, drained his beer and stood up. He stripped and placed his clothes in a neat pile by the side of the sofa, on top of his shoes and shirt, before coming back and kneeling in front of the short man. Nude, he looked like a Greek statue. He should have been on display in the British Museum or a private gallery.

The short man didn’t even put down his beer as John fellated him.

Bill passed something to the host – ah, of course. The host settled himself down behind John on the floor and used his fingers to apply the lubricant to John with practised efficiency, exchanging conversation with the other men as he did so. Jokes, presumably. At one point John pulled his mouth off the short man’s cock and joined in, getting a big laugh in response, and Sherlock’s chest tightened at the lively amusement on John’s face. Then the short man managed to push his head back down, and John _let_ him.

The host didn’t bother pulling his trousers and underwear down. He simply pulled his erection out, rolled a condom down it and pushed it into John’s arse.

…

_He groaned when he felt that sweet, glorious stretch that he hadn’t had in years, right where he needed it. ”Is that all you’ve got?” jeered Bill. “Put your back into it, he can take it.”_

_“Don’t want to wear him out just yet,” said Dan, sliding home with a grunt. “Some of us have a little thing called stamina.”_

_“That’s not the only thing you’ve got that’s little,” said Bill cheerfully, and John nearly choked himself laughing round Andy’s cock._

…

The conversation dwindled. Bill stroked himself as he watched the other three, leaning down every now and then to speak to John. When the short man came, red-faced and undignified, Bill took his place and John continued with barely a moment’s break between one cock and the next. Bill stroked the hair off John’s face, saying something, and John slowed down.

The rain dripped icily down the back of Sherlock’s neck and under his collar. His treacherous cock was horribly, unforgivably hard.

The host fucked John for a surprisingly long time, posing with one arm behind his back, until he eventually draped himself over John’s back as he came. As soon as he’d pulled out Bill pushed him away, stood up, rolled a condom on, knelt down behind John and fucked him roughly, shoving his face into the sofa cushions. Bill’s mouth never stopped moving.

…

_He was full, so full, sparks lighting up his nerves as Bill thrust into him over and over again, huge and unrelenting. “There, that’s what you need, a good hard cock up the arse. Say ‘thank you’.”_

_“Fuck off,” gasped John, twisting his head to one side. “But leave your cock – I like it better than you.”_

…

Once Bill had come he pulled John back up onto his knees, back pressed against Bill’s chest, and stroked his cock, still talking, until John ejaculated across the sofa. Sherlock finally touched himself when he saw that – pressed his palm against his erection and came silently in his trousers, fingernails digging into the palm of his other hand.

The host came back into the room with more beers and they seemed content to sit and drink for a moment, John on the floor leaning against Bill’s legs. He looked blissfully relaxed.

Sherlock decided that he had seen enough.

…

“I don’t know what’s got you so riled up, mate,” said Bill, squeezing John’s shoulder, “but I can’t say I’m not glad of it.”

John closed his eyes. An image of Sherlock glowering at him appeared in his mind. He groaned. “Fuck.” 

“How’s your flatmate?”

“How’s the wife?” snapped John.

“Very understanding,” said Bill, unperturbed. He slid his hand up to caress the nape of John’s neck. “You don’t have to rush off, do you?”

John shoved Sherlock and his disapproving expression to the back of his mind. “No,” he said, leaning back into Bill’s touch. “I really don’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

John got back to Baker Street just before three am. The walk had been long enough to wind down and now he felt wrung out and exhausted. That was the beauty of these fucks – they took all his stupid feelings, all his pain and anger and transmuted them into aching muscles and endorphins. Brilliant, obscene chemistry. (Not Sherlock’s kind of science, this – he of the well-regulated emotions had no idea what it was like to _feel_ so much that you thought it was about to burst through your skin. If he did, he wouldn’t provoke John with such casual disregard for the consequences.)

He would have felt even better if he could have come again but it just hadn’t happened. Over-stimulated, probably (and pushing forty). He’d come close, though, and the frustration simmered beneath his skin.

There was a light coming from under the door to the lounge. John paused on the landing, trying to weigh up his desire for a glass of water against the risk of being seen by Sherlock.

Fucking _Sherlock_. He was the most annoying, inconsiderate, socially maladjusted bastard that John had ever met, and the only thing that even slightly made it all ok was the fact that he was so utterly brilliant. Not just clever – he _shined_. He was funny and exciting and completely mad. He was twelve different people squashed into one lanky body and not a single one of them knew how to cope with a dull afternoon.

Christ, just thinking about Sherlock had got John’s adrenaline flowing. He really needed to get a good night’s sleep. Pressing his ear against the door, John listened carefully but couldn’t hear anything; odds were that Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa again and John could tip-toe past without getting caught. He opened the door carefully, stepped inside and saw Sherlock sitting in his armchair, wide awake, wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown.

Sherlock looked up. “Ah, John,” he said calmly. He had his laptop open on his lap and his face was lit by the light of the screen. “Had enough?” 

John stood as still as he could manage and kept his face blank, which was his default response when Sherlock asked deliberately ambiguous questions. “Evening.”

“Sex,” said Sherlock, as if John hadn’t responded at all. “Have you had enough sex for the evening?” He closed the laptop and put it down on the coffee table.

John walked into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water and drank it before coming back. Sherlock hadn’t moved.

“I’ve asked you before not to deduce my sex life.”

“Yes, but I didn’t deduce it,” said Sherlock quickly. “I saw it.”

“Observed, deduced, same diff-“

“No, John,” said Sherlock patiently. “I _saw_. I watched.”

John’s body understood that sentence before his brain did, going freezing cold as suddenly as if he’d jumped into an icy lake. “You,” he said dumbly before trying again. “Right. No, not right, actually, very fucking wrong, Sherlock!” He clapped a hand over his mouth as he realised how loudly he’d just shouted.

Sherlock watched with a concerned expression as John stumbled to his chair and sat down.

“Are you alright?”

John breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. In, out. “Alright with you having seen me getting, getting _fucked_? No, I’m really not.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t judge you, if that’s what’s upsetting you. It’s fine. I mean, I _mind_ obviously, but that’s different.”

John laughed shakily. “Didn’t like what you saw? Shouldn’t spy on people, then, you-”

“It was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen,” said Sherlock, matter-of-factly. “Would four in a night be a new record for you?”

John had finally cracked, or Sherlock had. Either way, someone probably should have seen it coming. “No.”

“Hm.” 

He could feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze on him. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it?”

“No,” John admitted, digging his fingers into the arm of the chair. He’d never talked about it, not even with Bill. He didn’t have the words. 

“Tell me about the first time.” Sherlock’s voice was expressionless.

“It was … it was a fucking _dare_. Christ.” John stared at the swirling pattern of the rug. “We all pretended to be joking but we weren’t, not really.”

“How many?”

“Just two, that time.” John wondered if this was how Catholics felt when they confessed their sins to a priest – like you were pulling parts of yourself out of darkness into a light so hot it burnt them to ash.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“ _Fuck_ , yes.” John finally looked up and met Sherlock’s gaze, and the look in his eyes was penance and absolution in one.

The floor creaked as Sherlock got up and walked over to him. He bent down, took John’s cold hand in his warm one and straightened up.

“Come on,” said Sherlock patiently, as if everything had already been discussed and decided.

John stood up and let himself be led through to Sherlock’s bedroom, closing the door behind them with his free hand on the way. 

Sherlock turned to face him. The orange streetlights glowed faintly through the curtains, casting the room into sepia tones of brown and shadow. Sherlock’s face was pale, his eyes dark. He let go of John’s hand and put both of his palms flat on John’s chest, heat bleeding through the cotton, before pushing his jacket off his shoulders. It fell to the floor quietly with a tiny rattle from the zip.

“Sherlock.” John couldn’t think how to continue. Sherlock’s face was serious as he slid his fingers in between the buttons on John’s shirt, undoing them one by one. He did the same to the cuffs and pushed the shirt off to join John’s jacket on the floor with a faint susurrus. His fingers insinuated themselves under John’s waistband, warm against his stomach, before pulling out the end of his vest and hauling it over his head.

Sherlock paused to look John slowly up and down. John stood upright, his hands hanging empty at his side and watched the movement of Sherlock’s eyes. Eventually Sherlock looked back up and met John’s helpless gaze. He frowned a little, then his expression cleared, and he leant forward with open eyes to press a cool, dry kiss to John’s lips.

John made a quiet, unbidden noise as Sherlock pulled away. Sherlock hesitated a moment, looking unsure, then closed his eyes and kissed John again.

 _Oh_ , that was better. John kissed Sherlock back with wet lips and eager tongue, deep and messy, bringing his hands up to clutch desperately at the sides of Sherlock’s head so that he couldn’t move away. Sherlock allowed John’s passion, welcoming the onslaught with an open mouth as his hands calmly undid John’s belt and zip. 

Sherlock pushed John’s trousers and underwear down until they fell to his ankles, then took hold of John’s hips and stepped backward. John followed Sherlock, unwilling to let his mouth go, but the tangle of clothes round his feet cut his stride short and he stumbled forward. Sherlock tried to catch him but John had too much momentum and they fell clumsily onto the bed together, John heavy on top of Sherlock.

John looked down to see Sherlock scowling up at him. A giggle started building, low in his stomach, and as he rolled off Sherlock it exploded.

“Stop that,” said Sherlock peevishly.

John couldn’t find the breath to respond. He lay on Sherlock’s bed, stark bollock naked with his pants around his ankles, and he _howled_ with laughter. 

When he finally got his breath back, stomach still trembling as the giggles subsided, John opened his eyes to see Sherlock standing by the bed topless, looking down as he undid the button at the top of his trousers. The laugh died in John’s throat. Dry-mouthed, John propped himself up on his elbows and _stared_.

Sherlock was fit, John had always known that – smooth and toned, the flat planes of his chest were outlined by shadows. And John had seen more than this before, but he’d never watched Sherlock undress. He’d never seen the deliberate flick of Sherlock’s thumb as he pushed his trouser button through the button-hole, with intent and purpose. For John to see. For John to-

Sherlock looked up and flashed a smile at John, fast as thought. “Got that out of your system?” he rumbled, voice even lower than usual.

John nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He could feel cock slowly filling out and his balls prickling with want. The frustration from earlier sharpened the edge of his desire.

“Good.” Sherlock stood on one leg as he pulled off a sock, then swapped legs and did the other before pushing his trousers down and stepping out of them, calmly and neatly. He folded himself down on one knee and carefully undid John’s shoes, easing them off one at a time followed by his socks and the rest of his clothes. 

John propped himself up on his elbows and watched all of this, all of these incomprehensible acts, and none of them seemed as impossible as the fact that he was now staring down at the top of Sherlock’s head. That silly dark mop of curls, that he’d watched from every possible angle but this, was now below him, exposed and vulnerable. He stretched out a hand and gently traced the line of Sherlock’s parting.

Sherlock breathed in sharply through his nose. Without looking up, he spread his long, bony hands across the tops of John’s thighs and rested his weight there as he tucked his bent leg under him so that he was kneeling between John’s legs. 

John swallowed at the sight, at the feel of it. Sherlock’s hands were hot and his face was mere inches from the tip of John’s cock, now hard and lifted clear of his balls.

“Yes,” he whispered, throat thick with arousal. “Whatever you’re thinking, yes.” And he wound a steady hand into Sherlock’s coarse tangle of hair. 

Sherlock exhaled and John could _feel_ it, warm and humid on his skin. He leant forward and captured the tip of John’s cock in his mouth.

“ _Ah_ ,” exhaled John as Sherlock sucked lightly, those soft lips tightening to form a seal around the head of his cock. “Oh, lovely.” He groaned quietly as Sherlock sank down fractionally, his mouth warm and wet and heavenly, and John stroked Sherlock’s scalp with his fingertips. He would never have thought that that razor-sharp tongue could be capable of such gentleness, of such generosity.

John’s face warmed as his cock throbbed and jerked in Sherlock’s mouth. Pleasure coiled tight in his belly, all the sweeter for the slow burn, and he could feel his orgasm approaching.

“Stop,” he panted. 

Sherlock pulled off slowly and looked up at him with a questioning expression.

“No, that’s lovely, I just … come up here, will you?” John kissed Sherlock quickly before sliding back on the bed until he was lying horizontally across it. Sherlock followed quickly, crawling over the bed until he was on all fours over John, looking down with a sly smile that John could barely make out in the dark.

John grinned up at Sherlock then pulled him down so that they were tangled together, face-to-face. John’s cock pressed up against Sherlock’s taut stomach and Sherlock’s jabbed into the crease of John’s thigh.

“Hello,” whispered John, kissing Sherlock’s lips, his cheek, his jaw. 

Sherlock snorted. “Good morning.” His hands were busy roaming over John’s back, paying particular attention to his arse and upper thighs. He dipped his fingers slyly into John’s cleft. 

John burnt with shame and shock as he hiked his leg up over Sherlock’s hip. One of Sherlock’s fingers rubbed over his hole and John inhaled sharply.

“Sore?” 

“A bit. Mostly just … sensitive.” Sherlock continued to caress his rim with the warm, dry pad of his index finger as John breathed and trembled, rubbing himself against Sherlock.

“I’d like to fuck you,” said Sherlock unsteadily, sliding his hands up John’s back, pressing him closer. “Not now, of course, but-”

“ _Yes_ ,” hissed John. “I want you to, so much, I think about it all the time.” He slid one hand between them and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s swollen cock, caressing it from root to leaking tip. He thought of riding it, of bouncing up and down on its thick, hard length, and had to bury his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck to stifle a moan.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” whispered Sherlock, clutching at John’s shoulders. His breathing was hoarse, his cock hot and heavy in John’s hand. John rutted feverishly against him, desperate to come, thrusting frantically until his orgasm _finally_ caught light and surged through him, lighting up every nerve ending in an explosion of sensation.

John kept his hand moving as he swept his free hand through the come on Sherlock’s stomach. He slid it over Sherlock’s cock and pumped him with both hands, wet and messy, until Sherlock came with a jerk and a quiet grunt.

They lay there for minutes, warm and damp, breathing each other’s air.

Eventually John pulled away and sat up. He scooted to the edge of the bed and groped around on the floor until he found his t-shirt. He turned around to see Sherlock watching him.

“Here, let me…” John swiped the t-shirt across Sherlock’s stomach before half-heartedly cleaning himself off. Tiredness swept through him. He balled the t-shirt up and threw it on the floor. “Um.”

“Sleep here,” said Sherlock quietly, not looking at John as he climbed under the covers.

“Are you-“ Sherlock tugged insistently at his upper arm. “Yes, yes, alright.” John got in and lay down next to Sherlock, close enough to feel his body heat.

John stared at the ceiling. “What now?” His body was half-asleep already but his mind was whirring.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then John felt him shrug. “Didn’t think this far ahead.”

“Liar,” said John instantly. 

There was a small huff of amusement from his left. 

“You don’t usually do this sort of thing.”

Sherlock made an indeterminate noise into the pillow and John felt a wave of affection wash over him.

“You may not have noticed,” he said slowly, his voice fogged with drowsiness, “but I don’t tend to play board games or watch ridiculous films with people either.”

Sherlock’s voice reached into John’s mind, catching the spinning cogs and bringing them to a gradual halt. John could feel himself smiling in the dark.

“Sleep,” said Sherlock, curling his hand over John’s hip and pushing.

John didn’t need much persuading. He let Sherlock arrange him until he was on his side and Sherlock was close behind him, one arm draped possessively around John’s waist. The last thing John was aware of before he fell asleep was Sherlock’s warm breath on his neck.


End file.
